


get dressed in your bed, while she's asleep

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Trans Din Djarin, Vignette, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There’s no morning sun to wake him up on the Razorcrest, only the shift and bump of the ship as it floats languidly between planets.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	get dressed in your bed, while she's asleep

_ It's just a trigger that goes once and you'll be unafraid _

_ I wish that I'd been noticed, but it never goes that way _

There’s no morning sun to wake him up on the Razorcrest, only the shift and bump of the ship as it floats languidly between planets. No goal in mind, this time, just the thick and molten need to avoid planting one’s feet on the ground. It’s the thought of remnant trackers and an unnaturally white smile that punts the ship to the broader South, towards the ditz and brush of uninhabited rocks and asteroid belts. 

The child sleeps in a woven basket of reeds and rubbery bark, unaware of Din sliding quietly down the ladder into the lower port. Its presence no longer disturbs his much needed privacy, only the solitude which it had, by nature, accrued. It’s in comfort, then, that he removes the plating of his beskar, dizziness and ache blurring his vision as he does so. Every now and then oil slicks will burst in front of his eyes, pressing back hard on the sockets, suggesting that his precious metals are blooming with lichen and molds. The pieces clatter and  _ ting _ gently as Din places them carefully on a makeshift shelf, part of the ship’s inner plating bent on awkward hinges for the sake of storage.

With only the press of cloth creeping up his throat and blocking his fingertips, he’s tempted to shut the hatch to the upper floor, but forces his hand down to the rim of his shirt, lifting slowly. The compressed environment, dry for the sake of health but cold in its humming regulation, cools the skin against his stomach, ever stuffy and hidden. It’s to no one’s eyes but his own which he bares himself briefly, covering his chest with his forearm and slipping into one of his few sweaters, which would be inconvenient and bulky under beskar. But there’s no goal in mind: and, hopefully, no one new to view the pale flesh that bulges gently from in-between spaces, bruising his silhouette.

Eaten away by lack of light, sustaining itself on the reminiscing of future meals.

As Din stretches, gripping his own wrists behind his back, the child climbs clumsily down from the upper level, staring wide-eyed at him. It stumbles over quickly while he watches, silently, and grasps the excess fabric of his trousers— a universal communication:  _ pick me up _ . And Din does, holding the child close to him, now that he is unburdened by layers. He lets the child press a slightly sticky green hand against his stubble, helmet left in an unceremonious pile.

“It’s me,” he whispers. “I’m still here.”


End file.
